


Blackened Wings

by Skalidra



Category: Batman (Comics), DCU (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Steampunk, M/M, Pirates, Wings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-15
Updated: 2017-09-15
Packaged: 2018-12-30 01:04:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,950
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12097329
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skalidra/pseuds/Skalidra
Summary: Tim is a Winged; one of a highly trained subsection of the military, and captain of his own airship. At least, he is until pirates ambush him and his crew in the early morning and take the ship. He's left grounded, and he knows he can't take on a whole ship of pirates by himself. He needs help, and the town nearby is the only option. He just has to hope he gets lucky.





	Blackened Wings

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TaneKore](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TaneKore/gifts).



> Hello everyone! I'm baaccckkkk! This was written for the Batfam Reverse Bang, for a lovely piece of art by [JayKore!](http://jaykore.tumblr.com/) It's embedded in the story below, and you can find the post for the art itself (as well as a more close-up version, right here!
> 
> Enjoy!

Tim’s pretty sure that this is shaping up to be the worst day of his career. Starting with the pirates that — he figures the details out too late for it to matter — come up in the clouds beneath his ship and latch onto the bottom before anyone sees them, before heading for his deck. At the time, it feels like they come out of nowhere; noise hidden below the sound of the engines, vaulting or flying up over the edges and blasting his crew into hiding behind whatever was close at hand. None of them were prepared for an ambush quite this early in the day; most attacks come under the cover of night or through heavier clouds or storms, not wisps and bits of clouds on a clear, hot day. It's a mistake that defines the rest of his immediate future.

The second one is going toe to toe with what he’s pretty sure is the leader; a man in a black helmet painted in the likeness of a skull. Classy.

The mistake isn't in engaging the man. After all, Tim’s the captain and he’s expected to go after the most threatening opponent in any situation to neutralize them, as his crew handles the rest. No, the mistake comes when after he dive-bombs the man, knocking him flat on his back, he avoids the return shotgun blast by turning the dial on the left side of his waist and spinning in a sharp circle. His wings extend just in time to knock the shotgun out of the man's hands before there can be a second shot, as planned, but the pistol that takes its place within a moment is arguably more deadly at the moment.

Tim dodges away from it, two shots ringing out and missing before he gets far enough to dive over the edge of the ship. He can spin around and come up again, get a better angle to strike with and maybe get that pistol away from the bastard (damn the fact that most of his weaponry is still in his cabin).

His wings catch the air, and then suddenly he’s spiraling as his right shoulder snaps back and with a painfully audible _rip_ of cloth his left _doesn’t_. He doesn’t have the air to yelp with it rushing past him so dizzyingly, but he manages to twist his head to see the hole torn into his left wing, and realize with a sharp slice of horror exactly what went wrong. The first shotgun blast didn’t entirely miss him; it shredded a collection of small holes into one wing and under the pressure of the air trying to catch two of those holes ripped open into one large enough to make that wing basically useless. Meaning he’s falling. Meaning even if he stabilizes, he doesn’t have the steering control necessary to use his fuel-powered boots to get back up to his rapidly shrinking ship.

_Shit._

Training takes over; can’t be one of the Winged if you don’t know how to fall.

One targeted blast of both boots halts the out of control spiral, snapping him right side up (more or less) and stabilizing him enough that he can flare just the one boot to carefully, precisely compensate for his non-functional wing. It’s not perfect, but it’s enough to keep him from flipping end over end and slow him down enough that he doesn’t crash into the ground face first. Said ground is still approaching faster than he’d like, but he’ll deal with that in a minute. If he puts too much power into that boot he’ll end up spiraling again, and if that happens he’s not going to have time to right himself before smashing into the ground anyway. He’ll take the less likely to murder him option.

Staying stable occupies his attention until he judges the distance is about right; thirty feet or so to impact. In quick succession he turns off his boot, closes his wings, and then flares both boots hard enough to counter the downwards momentum. Only practice lets him stay right side up as the force of it fights him.

Hitting the ground still hurts, but he lets his knees fold and rolls into it, the contraption of his wings digging into his back as he goes over it but that's a pain he's pretty familiar with. He ends up face down in the grass, but his bones all seem to be not-broken and he's still conscious, so he's going to call it a successful landing. He breathes through his teeth, allowing himself to hiss between them as he pushes off the ground and looks up into the sky.

As a distant spot in the sky, he can see the darkness of his ship continuing on its course.

Alright, _think_. So, his crew wasn't armed; wasn't ready. That means it's highly unlikely that they managed to fend off the pirates — both armed _and_ ready — and Tim should assume that his ship's been taken over. He has to get word to the Empire. Or, he has to take his ship back.

His teeth set more firmly together, and he brushes grass and bits of dirt off the black, red, and gold of his uniform as he stands. Yeah, he knows which option he'd prefer. If he can get his ship back before it ever becomes a threat, and before the pirates do… whatever it is they might do with his captured crew, then it becomes a simple report. Ship captured; won back. That's a whole lot better than a 'lost his ship to pirates' investigation.

So, first off, he's going to need help. He can't take on a whole pirate crew by himself, and especially not since he's going to have to fix up his wing to even make it up there. A patch job like that might not hold under real combat. So help, and to get help he needs to get to the closest inhabited town. Which, if he remembers his maps and his current position correctly, should only be about an hour's walk. Farther than he'd prefer — an airship can get a long way in an hour — but he doesn't have much of a choice. He's never going to be able to keep pace with his ship on the ground, so however much he wants to track it he's better off just getting help and tracking it down later.

Usually there's at least some level of military outpost in any more major town, and if not… Well, every town he's ever been in (that he's bothered looking) has had some sort of mercenary or possibly-pirate presence. He's got enough wealth stored away to pay off a crew, legal or not. Once they get the ship back anyway, and he's never been stupid enough to pay a crew like that upfront. Work first, then payment. (Once he's armed again, and his crew is free.)

He groans in frustration, shoves his goggles up on top of his half-helmet to take a last glance at his ship, and then turns away and starts to walk.

His estimation of an hour is about right, at least according to the pocket-watch that somehow managed to stay in his jacket. He loses sight of his ship within the first ten minutes, which makes him twitchy, but he breathes through it and forces himself to continue towards the town. It's still a couple hours from midday when he gets there, but he can see more than a bit of activity as he gets closer. The road he merges onto is a paved one, and the town itself surrounded by a low-ish old wall. Useless nowadays of course, but very few towns have torn them down; they add character, after all. Usually they just cut more gates and holes into them and continue to build outward; this one hasn't quite gotten to that point yet.

He gets a couple strange looks from the civilians he passes on the way in, but nothing worrisome. It's easy to ignore them as he hunts for a) the base for the military outpost, and b) the most popular inn or pub in town. That's where he'll find his mercenaries.

It's those he goes for first. If he can skip having to inform the Empire at all, at least before it's over, he'd prefer that. Sure, it'll skirt the line between arrogance and confidence, and he might get reprimanded for not taking the 'safe' route, but better that than the possibility of getting grounded and told to wait for a backup airship when Command is contacted. He didn't become one of the youngest Winged captains in the fleet by being cautious all the time; he can handle this.

He hasn’t gone looking for pubs in a while now (been up in the air too long) but he flashes a few something-like-charming smiles at passersby and asks politely and they point him in the right direction. It’s a nice place; shingle roofing and a sign that looks freshly repainted with the name and a small list of services offered. Drinks, food, games, and apparently (from seven to nine) dancers. Yeah, this looks like the right place.

He takes a second to make sure that the collapsible staff — his only current weapon, thanks to the early-hour ambush — is still securely hooked to his right thigh, breathes out and straightens his spine, and pushes open the door.

It’s pretty quiet.

A good portion of the tables — wooden, but with a smooth polish to them that's a step up from the roughness of true country inns — are unoccupied, and the ones that are taken are scattered into the corners of the room. Groups, almost exclusively, and Tim's certain at that moment that he's picked the right place because at least two of those groups have a particularly uniformed look to them. Not military of any kind he knows, but the largest of the groups all have helmets on in shades of black, grey, and red, and it's there that his gaze lingers first.

Most of them have the portion over their mouth removed so there's no impediment to the meal they're sharing, and some of them have the goggles strapped around the helmets removed as well. The clothing varies, but it's all mostly color-coded to match the helmets; pirates, would be his guess. The various weapons they're carrying backs that guess up.

The door shuts, and he takes a glance at the other tables as their occupants glance back at him. Two other tables look civilian, but the last occupied one has a more strictly-uniformed appearance. Still not military, but by the matching patches on their right shoulders it's easy to mark them as part of some mercenary band. Dusty shoes and heavy cloaks; looks like they might just be passing through, but he'll still see if they can be distracted from whatever journey they're on for long enough to help him. Mercenaries are the most reliable, if they're a good band. More reliable than pirates, anyway.

His entrance inspires a sharp sort of silence in the room. The mercenaries and pirates both go quiet, and the civilians cue off that and turn to look at him. Tim wishes, for a moment, that he could order a drink and actually make himself stand out just a bit less, but everything he has is back on the ship. He couldn't pay for it even if he did. (That's alright; he just has to say what he came to and get on with it. Pirates and mercenaries don't scare him.)

He approaches the mercenary table first, as they watch him. They're all in a sort of grey-green uniform; bronze-colored metal glinting at the knuckles of their gloves and gazes fixed in a cool sort of interest. Professional, that's good. The civilians start to talk again, as Tim reaches the mercenary's table and stands before it, meeting their gazes.

"Busy?" he asks, watching their expressions and waiting for one to take the lead.

The one that does is a tall, lean man with the shadow of a beard and dark brown hair, leaning on one elbow to look up at him. "Might be. What's it to you, Winged?"

Not friendly; not a refusal to speak either.

"I'd like to hire you, if you've got the time." One eyebrow rises. The man takes a slow drink from the cup before him, and Tim takes it as tacit permission to continue. "I have a ship that needs to be boarded and taken. I could use some men to make that happen."

The cup settles back onto the table. "Your ship?"

Tim tilts his head. "Does it matter?" Probably better not to admit too much weakness to men like this.

The smirk he gets for that isn't an entirely friendly thing, and Tim bites his tongue not to comment anything as the man looks away with clear dismissal. "My men have a job they're headed for, but good luck with 'your' ship little Winged. I'm sure your military will supply the men."

It's more than obvious enough that this particular band, whoever they are, isn't interested in helping him. Fine; he has other options.

"Thank you for your time," he offers with the politeness his family always drilled into him, before he turns away and heads for the pirates instead. They're watching him more openly now, leaned back in chairs and with open smirks. Maybe they caught some of what was said between him and the mercenaries, or maybe they're just underestimating Winged, like most people do.

Takes someone small and light to be a Winged; they don't make intimidating figures, but that doesn't mean they're not effective. A lot of people have underestimated a Winged based on size and only lived exactly long enough to regret it.

"Need something, pretty?" one of them asks, as he walks up. It's in a drawl; the blue eyes are aimed at Tim's face, but his real focus is obvious enough.

He lets himself glance the man up and down, and then comment, "Certainly not from you," with as much cool distaste as he can manage. That man scowls, but the other five at the table either laugh or grin, easing back into the chairs and settling in. He offers a smirk of his own before he looks at the rest of them and says, "I'd be interested in hiring some of you for a job, if being paid sounds good to you."

The man on the opposite side of the table leans forward, elbows on the table as he looks up with a grin. Only his jaw and mouth are visible, but his skin is clean-shaven. "What kind of a job?"

Tim doesn't think that this particular man is the leader of the group, but he's speaking for them so he addresses his words that way, with only one glance around the table to meet the rest of their eyes. "There's a ship that I want boarded and taken. Depends how good you are, but I shouldn't need more than six or seven."

The one he slighted and one who hasn't yet spoken exchange a look, before blue-eyes gives a crooked, knowing smirk. "Someone take it from you, pretty?"

Oh. Well that's a possibility he probably should have considered. These can't be the _same_ pirates that took his ship — he would have seen his ship go overhead, at least — but it is possible they're from the same crew. Word could have easily gotten back to town of a successful raid; all it would take is a call through on his ship's radio. He didn't immediately recognize the similarity in dress between the pirates that attacked his ship and this one, but he didn't get a very good look at them to begin with. The skull-helmet stands out to him the clearest, and he guesses…

Maybe, when the mouthpieces of the helmets are back on, they might look pretty similar.

"Not for long," is what he chooses to answer. "Know something about that?"

Blue-eyes grins a little wider. "What, us? No, of course not. Taking a military airship, well, that'd be a real offense wouldn't it?" He tilts back towards the table, asking the rest of them, "We wouldn't be involved in something like that, would we?"

More laughter, and a few refusals that are clearly faked. Tim feels his eyes narrow, but he forces the reaction away before any of them can catch the irritation behind it. At least, most of them; the one right across the table, clean-shaven, is watching him. He meets the focused gaze for a moment, before lifting his chin half an inch and letting his gaze sweep over the rest of them. Silently, he commits their looks and the angles of their jaws (and colors of the eyes he can see) to memory.

This, "Thank you for your time," is a lot more disingenuous than his first one, but he doesn't try for anything nicer.

He turns on a heel and heads for the door without another word, ignoring the laughter at his back and the looks he can feel burning at the back of his neck. Let them laugh; he'll remember this place, and them, and someday he'll make sure they get what they deserve. He has a long memory.

Tim clocked where the military barracks were on his way to this pub, and he heads back for that once he's out of the building. He'll just have to take his chances with being grounded; at the end of the day the ship and his crew are more important than his pride and his career. He's a Winged; maybe they can give him more remote assignments, but demoting him would be a job that he doesn't think anyone is willing to take on. His job takes invested time, natural talent, and exactly the right body type to do; he fits all three of those requirements.

He cuts through some of the alleys to save time, keeping track of the direction he's headed so he can make sure the twists of the alleys don't get him off course. There's almost no one in the alleys, and the couple that pass him by don't pay him any mind.

He's deep between buildings when he notices something… wrong. Not an echo, not anything out of place, but he's had some of the best training the Empire has to offer. The footsteps, _his_ footsteps. They're… louder than they should be. Heavier.

He skips a step; another pair of footsteps behind him that _isn't his_ falls out of sync.

Tim whirls, turning a sharp circle, and that someone grabs him by the wrist and swings him around with enough force to crack him into the wall face first. He grunts in pain, hands lifting to shove against the wall, and fingers curl around his wrists and pin them there as someone tall and _big_ presses up against his wings and back. The grip is strong enough a hard jerk doesn't get him free, so he twists instead and brings one boot sharply up to press back against the person behind him.

"Let me make this clear," he spits against the wall. "You let go, or I set this boot off right into whatever part of you I happen to be pressing up against."

There's a masculine snort, but the hands around his wrists let go and his attacker backs off. Tim flips around, keeping one boot raised and lowering his hand to the staff at his thigh as he bares his teeth. It's a tall man, as he felt. Six feet perhaps, broad shoulders leading down to a narrow waist. He's in a close-fitting black coat and black pants, with a red helmet that looks distinctly familiar. One of the pirates from the pub. Dark brown leather, with bits of bronze and gold metal reinforcing it, make up a bracer and shoulder-harness on his left side. That must be to support the rifle he can see sticking out from behind that shoulder; same for the metal backing on the glove of his left hand.

Rifle must have a hell of a kick to need reinforcement like that to a steadying arm, and that's only the most obvious piece of weaponry and geared enhancement on the man. The gold of the goggles and the air-filter on the mask cover up any bit of skin Tim could see before. This, he believes, was the clean-shaven one. Would make sense; this was the one that was really paying attention to him.

"Easy," the man says, and there's amusement in his voice. "Not looking to hurt you, little bird. You're looking for help, aren't you?"

Tim blinks, staring up at the man. Slowly, he lowers his boot back to the ground. "You… want to help?"

"I might." The man's hip cocks to one side, metal-covered hand bracing against it. "Pirates ambushed your ship, hm? Took it? And you… escaped?"

"Went over the side," he corrects. "I don't run from attacks on my crew."

"Alright, alright. Wouldn't think that going over the side of an airship would be a problem for a Winged; air currents not behaving? Get trapped in the downdraft of an engine?"

He doesn't think he's quite willing to tell this random pirate about the hole in his wing, so all he offers is a caged, "Something like that."

"Hm." The pirate's head tilts the same direction his hip is cocked. "You see the one leading them? The pirates?" Tim pauses. Nods. "Describe them for me?"

It all feels like a trap, but the man's hands aren't resting near any of his obvious weapons and there doesn't seem to be any obvious malice to his tone. Tim comforts himself by pulling his collapsed staff from its sheath on his thigh, though he doesn't extend it. He can't tell if the man looks at it with his face obscured, but there's no visible reaction. "Black helmet painted like a skull is the part that stands out. Other than that; fairly tall, carried at least a shotgun and pistol, dressed all in black. Uniforms of the men with him looked a lot like your group back in the pub there."

He doesn't know what the response to that is, with the helmet blocking any expression, but there's a moment of silence before the man briefly turns his head to look down the alley as he says, "He goes by Black Mask; the leader of the raiders that took your ship. Got a pretty big following in this territory, plus tendrils in a few others."

"And you're telling me this why?"

Another pause, then there's a hum that reads to him as halfway between amusement and consideration. "I'll help you. I know where they're taking your ship; I can lead you there."

It seems too good to be true, and that makes him wary of the offer even without the fact that this random, anonymous man is part of the band that boarded his ship. "And why should I trust you?" he asks, letting his eyes narrow. "The kindness of your heart?"

He gets the impression, through the tone of the man's voice when he says, "Black Mask and I don't really get along; different world views," that there's a grin hidden behind the helmet. "And honestly? I just can't resist a pretty bird in distress."

His teeth grit together; helpful or not he still doesn't _like_ being called pretty. "Then you have allies? Others that you can recruit to help us take the ship?"

"Nope. It'd just be you and me."

A disbelieving snort bursts out before he can think to stop it. "Yeah, I think I'll stick with getting _official_ help," he counters, and turns to stride off down the alley. _Two_ people to take a ship? Yeah, not going to happen.

He gets three steps away before the pirate calls, "The commanders are bribed." That, despite everything, makes him still. "They'll call for 'backup' and by the time anything actually gets here your ship will be unrecognizable and your crew dumped in the middle of whatever wasteland they passed over. That's standard procedure."

Tim's jaw aches a bit from the clench of his teeth, as he digests that. It's… probably true. Pirates set up heavily enough in this town to just be out in plain view, and steal _military_ ships? They'd have to have a handle on any local law enforcement to function decently. _Damnit_.

He turns.

"The two of us can't take a ship by ourselves," he points out, only barely refraining from outright scowling up at the man.

This time, he's _sure_ there's a grin back there. "Sure we can; you're a Winged, and I've got a _really_ big gun." The man pats the end of the rifle sticking over his shoulder, and then strides past him with a, "Come on, little bird. We can catch them right after sundown if we head out now and spend the day driving, and that'll give you time to fix your wings."

"You—” He whirls around and hurries after the pirate. "How the hell did you know that?"

The man waits until Tim's keeping pace (and he _slows_ a bit, to make it possible) before answering. "Come on. A Winged, falling out of the sky? No storm and no high winds; either your boots or your wings are broken."

For as arrogant and as much of a mysterious ass as he's being, the man seems to know a decent amount about his capabilities. It's frustrating, and he can't figure out anything in return. "You could at least give me your name."

"I could." The man offers him the closer gloved hand, without slowing. "You can call me Red."

He shakes the hand, but not without commenting, "What's with your band and _colors?_ "

Red snorts, but doesn't answer.

* * *

Tim doesn't think that the vehicle Red leads him to actually belongs to him, but it's got a flat bed in the back with more than enough room for him to sit (and lay down, if he needs to not be visible) so he pretends not to notice the illegality of it. Red throws open the window between cab and the hauling space once they're out of the town, and Tim pulls his wings from his back and spreads them out, so he can take a closer look at the damage. Apart from the larger rip, it all looks like fairly minor damage. Thick thread and needle is part of the small kit he's never without, so that's not a problem. Maybe he can take pieces off his uniform to patch it.

At least, that's his plan until Red passes him back a bundle of nearly the same sort of heavy canvas that his wings are made of. It's black instead of white, but it still works. Why the hell he's carrying it, and where it came from, Tim has absolutely no clue. But it's what he needs so like the car he decides not to question it.

He thought maybe it was an exaggeration that they'd get there after sundown, given it was still early, but although Red isn't driving particularly fast he doesn't stop. They pause briefly a couple times, for necessary business and then some snacks procured from somewhere hidden, but otherwise they go the whole time. Tim has more than enough time to fix his wings, and doze off for about an hour curled up in the back, despite his better judgment.

There's no sign of his airship, but Red doesn't seem worried. During the trip, he hands out pieces of information in the bits of conversations they have through the window.

Black Mask's a sadist apparently, which is Red's issue with him. Has a habit of inventive murder when it comes to people that cross him, though rarely by his own hand. That doesn't help the worries he has for his crew. He also learns that Red's fairly new to the area (he doesn't ask if that's true about the pirating too); a matter of just over half a year, and various places before that. A bit of a wanderer, apparently, which would fit if he's been a criminal for awhile. That's one more thing he tries not to think about; the man's helping him, he's going to try not to judge.

If the help is genuine. If he's not being led into a trap or an ambush or an execution. It's a possibility that he can't afford not to consider; no one else knows that his ship was hijacked, so if he goes missing too... A trap is too big a chance for him not to keep himself ready for it, no matter how friendly or at-ease Red seems. Pirates lie; just a fact of life.

The day passes by, and just a few minutes after the sun sinks down behind some of the mountains, leaving only a dim and quickly fading light, Red pulls the vehicle over and partially behind a copse of trees. They left real roads behind a while back, and the dirt paths do look well worn, but they also look (to him) like they lead to little more than remote farms. Maybe that’s the point.

He hooks his wings back on as Red is slipping out of the cab, and then hops off the back to join him.

 

[ ](https://cdn.discordapp.com/attachments/317132394450780160/358075839360925696/timothysteampunk-3.png)

 

“Still a bit of a hike,” Red comments, as he slides the rifle back into its harness across his spine. “Don’t want them hearing the engine. Follow me, little bird; I’ve done this before.”

He follows. “You’ve snuck up to spy on your boss before?” he asks a bit pointedly, and the man snorts but doesn’t turn around.

“Not him specifically, but sure. I like to be prepared.”

There are all _kinds_ of things Tim could say to that, but he bites his tongue and just decides not to. He’s getting the impression that there is a _lot_ Red isn’t telling him about things like motivation and exactly who he is, and even though those are things he’s pretty sure he wants to know he’s also pretty sure that they’re things he’s not going to get answers for even if he pushes. So he follows, and he studies Red’s back and weaponry.

The rifle is the most obvious, but it’s not the only weapon on him or even the only gun. He can _see_ two pistols on either hip and then a sheathed, fairly long knife, but god knows what else there is that he can’t see. The clothing’s fairly form-fitting, but if things were narrow, or well hidden… He’d lay bets on there being at least one or two more dangerous things under there.

By the time Red motions him to a halt, and then holds a finger to his lips in the universal symbol for silence, the last of the light is gone. There’s some light cast from the moon, but the only other light source is a varying orange and yellow glow from over this last hill; ambush or not, there’s definitely at least a camp there. He takes the hand Red offers to pull him up the rest of the steeper incline, to a divot at the very top that he settles them both into like… like he knew it was there. Like he really has done this before.

Huh.

There’s some brush at the lip of it; thin bushes with little foliage that make for a nearly perfect shield from any prying eyes, while leaving the area below open to their gaze. His _ship_ is down there. Landed, two of the smaller floodlights on one side turned on to illuminate what looks like a fully set up work area. There’s about a dozen and a half men that he can see down there, slipping in and out of the ship or gathered around two fairly large fires, talking and laughing. Some have helmets on, but more are bare-faced. His eyes narrow.

“Easy,” Red murmurs, without even looking at him. “Your ship’s got a brig, right? Your men will be in there. We can take these ones, but we’ll need a plan.”

“Yeah, what is your grand plan for taking all of them down with just the two of us?” Maybe his tone is a bit sarcastic, but he’s not feeling massively comfortable trusting this to a pirate he doesn’t know the skill of. He knows _his_ skill, and he could probably take… most of them. If he was careful and he managed to get a few down without the rest noticing. But he can’t take all of them, not here on the ground. If his ship was still in the air, and they cooperated and all flocked to the deck, then maybe.

Red is digging into his coat with the less-metal-covered hand, and emerges with two circular items that, after squinting, Tim identifies as _grenades_. Smoke grenades, but _grenades_.

He stares as Red palms them, and slides the rifle off his back and to the dirt between them. “You’re a Winged,” he says, and Tim is _not_ imagining the satisfied, amused, _vicious_ edge to his voice. “Go do what you do best; I got your back.”

“Why do you have _grenades?_ ” he hisses, but all he gets is a laugh.

Red shifts to his knees, winds an arm back, and chucks both grenades in rapid succession. Tim follows the curve of them, and his mouth drops open a bit as they hit, in nearly perfect synchronization, right to the sides of both fire-clustered groups. There are shouts of alarm, but both grenades explode into clouds of smoke before the pirates can run far enough to not be caught in it. Red is already lying down, rifle fitting snugly into the curve of his left arm and bracing into his reinforced shoulder.

“Go on then,” he says, in that same tone. “They’re easy pickings in that; go get ‘em, little bird.”

He stares for another moment, but then just mentally throws his hands up in the air. Whatever. The guy’s weird; Tim’s got a ship to retake.

It’s second nature to rise just far enough that snapping his wings out and blasting his boots sends him flying off the top of the hill and over the whole group of them, choking in the smoke. He doesn’t have a mask so he’ll need to be cautious about not breathing in any of that smoke, but he can do that. This is _his_ arena.

He kills the boots to drop into one of the clouds, spotting a helmeted face trying to drag an unhelmeted one out. The man never hears him coming. He flares his boots just a few feet before impact, full strength and _roasting_ the man’s head and shoulders in the blast. He drops without so much as a scream; the unhelmeted one looks up with wide eyes, and Tim makes sure to flare one boot out his direction too before taking off into the sky. _That_ one screams.

The second one he dive-bombs, he stops to take the pistol from. He has his staff, but it isn't as efficient a weapon when he's flying; better to have his arms free to balance and help steer. But shooting people? Well, that's a lot easier.

The _crack_ of the rifle makes him automatically flip into a spin the first time he hears it, before he realizes that it's Red's. He shakes off the paranoia, and picks out another figure stumbling from the smoke to come down on top of. He sees the man that falls from the second crack, crumpling to the ground without even a chance at defense. Hell of a gun indeed, and a hell of a shot to go with it. Likely limited ammo though; hard to take a full group out by himself without some form of backup. _Excellent_ for assassinations though, or ranged support.

(Everything he learns about Red adds one more piece to a puzzle that still doesn't make any sense.)

They take out almost all the men before the smoke's dissipated enough to allow for a clear battlefield. Those he pulls his staff for, and with the combination of a few last rifle shots and some precisely-delivered electrically reinforced strikes to sensitive areas the remaining pirates are easy enough to dispatch. Tim can't help the grin that twists his mouth as he looks around the camp and finds no one else left standing. He knows there are more in the ship, and he's yet to see the man Red called 'Black Mask' so he must be one of them, but still, _most_ of them are down.

Movement catches the corner of his eye and he spins, but it's just Red sliding down the hill, rifle over his back and replaced with a pistol in one hand. He breathes out and reaches back to close his wings, letting them wind shut as he heads for the ship. Red jogs to catch up to him, and falls into step at his side as Tim takes the time to check the gun he's 'borrowed.' Two shots left; not preferable.

"Got a spare?" he asks, with a nod at it.

Red laughs, but pulls the second gun from its holster at his hip and hands it off to him. Six shots; much better.

"You know the layout of a military ship?"

"I do," Red confirms; Tim decides not to spend any time wondering why that is.

He clicks his wings back out. "I'll start at the top. Get to the brig and clear out any guards that might be there; I'll meet you in the ship once I clear the decks."

Red snaps a salute, taking the first few steps up the ramp backwards to look down at him. "See you in there, little bird. Good hunting!"

He vanishes through the door, and Tim shakes his head before activating his boots. He circles over the ship instead of landing immediately, and it's good he does because there's the _crack_ of gunfire from someone on the deck. Spinning into a sharp corkscrew is automatic, the world spiraling as he scans the top of the ship to see who it is that's shooting at him. Two men with pistols, standing half behind one of the lashed-down stacks of supplies miraculously still up. Easy pickings.

They don't know his ship as well as he does, and it's _so_ simple to spin around and come in dangerously low to the deck, dodging supply stacks and rigging with precise shifts of his boots to curve sharply around that stack and— _Wham!_

The metal edge of his wing takes out both their sets of legs, and an arch of his back and lift of his knees has him spinning up over them, gun drawn and ready. One shot high on each chest. Done.

He lets the arch of the spin bring him all the way around in a circle, till the moment he flips the boots off and drops the last two feet into the deck. A harder landing than preferred, but he lets the force take him to both knees and that's enough to dispel it. While he's down, he checks to make sure that the two pirates he's shot are actually down for the count. One of them has a grenade; he takes that too. Not as useful in close quarters, like the corridors he'll be heading down to sweep the ship, but better to be prepared. _Always_ better to have more choices.

Done with that, he sweeps the decks and the small room of his office on top to make sure they're clear. Nothing stirs. He comes back around to head for the lower decks, but before he can reach any of the stairwells, a figure bursts from one on the far side. It takes only a moment for Tim to recognize the pirate. Black helmet with a skull, black clothing and armor, shotgun swinging wide in one hand. Black Mask.

It's too late to hide and try for an ambush, so he jumps behind cover instead as Black Mask runs further out onto the deck. A blast from the shotgun riddles the edge of his cover a fraction after he ducks into it.

The weight at his hip reminds him of the grenade, and his lips curl into a sharp grin. That'll do.

He takes one glance to figure out where Black Mask is — finding his own cover — then pulls the pin on the grenade and chucks it that direction. There's a shout from that direction that sounds a lot like a curse, and then the thud of the explosion itself. He can hear the rapid footsteps of Black Mask running from the likely destroyed cover, and darts out of cover himself to cut him off before he can reach more. The shotgun is a danger, but this is a fight he's trained for many times. He's good for more than long range and quick ambushes.

Black Mask is running back for the stairwell, but Tim jumps and flares his boots to close the distance and slam the bigger man into the wall, face first. The pirate's quick to recover, lashing backwards at him with a sharp elbow that drives him back just far enough to avoid it. He ducks to the side as Black Mask spins around, kicking out to knock the shotgun from his hands before it can be used to take a shot at him. It spins off across the deck. This time, remembering how the encounter during the ambush went, he pushes forward and strikes again to stop Black Mask from drawing the pistol at his hip.

"Little _bastard!_ " Black Mask shouts, as the half-drawn pistol goes skittering across the deck as well. His voice is a metal-tainted growl of a thing. "I'll _gut_ you!"

Tim bares his teeth, the urge to make the man _hurt_ for daring to attack his ship warring with the urge to just finish this as quickly as possible. "Then come and get me!"

The pirate's quick for his size. He shoves forward, going for a forward horse kick with one heavily booted leg. Tim leaps back, flaring his boots just enough to aid the jump as he reaches for the holstered pistol he'd 'borrowed' from Red. Black Mask spins away, running in a crooked line for where the shotgun's lying instead of trying to face him head on; Tim's lips curl up in a snarl. He turns to follow.

There's a gunshot. Black Mask reels back from the shotgun and the new bullet hole in the deck in front of it, and Tim draws to a startled halt, head jerking towards the movement in the corner of his peripheral vision.

Red steps out of the stairwell, pistol in hand and focused on Black Mask. Instantly, Black Mask snarls, hands clenching at his sides, mostly turned towards Red. " _You_. You think you're going to get away with this, traitorous little bitch?"

"Nice to see you too, Roman." Red tilts his head and approaches. "Down. On your knees, hands in the air. And how about you step away from the shotgun first?"

There's a moment where Tim doesn't think he's going to do it, but then Black Mask — Roman? — takes one step back from the discarded gun and drops down, lifting both hands up above his head. Red starts forward, keeping the pistol carefully trained as he circles around to Black Mask's back.

"You mind keeping him still?" Red asks, helmet tilting in Tim's direction to make it clear that he’s the one being asked.

He offers a nod, after a moment, and steps forward himself until he can lift his pistol, keeping it aimed at Black Mask's chest. Red holsters his own, and then produces a pair of handcuffs from within his jacket. Tim stares as he efficiently, like it's _practiced_ , cuffs one wrist and then brings both down to cuff them together behind his back.

"Roman Sionis," Red starts, and Tim twitches a little bit at the volume of it, and the satisfaction clear in the tone, "you're under arrest for the theft of a military vessel, the assault of its crew, and all associated piracy crimes."

"You son of a bitch. You think you can—”

Red strikes in a sudden flash of movement, one foot cracking into the back of Black Mask's helmet and slamming him to the ground. He doesn't move.

"I'm sure I'll think up some more with a bit of time," Red adds, settling back onto both feet. He heads over to the shotgun, picking it off the ground just long enough to deftly pop it open and remove the shells, before dropping all of it back to the ground.

Tim lowers the pistol. "Who the hell _are_ you?" he finally asks, the question bursting from his mouth before he can even really think about it. Probably because he _has_ been thinking about it since the stupid ambush in the alley.

Red circles around the limp form of Black Mask, approaching him and reaching up to press some hidden part of the helmet he's wearing. There's a hiss of air, and he tugs it off and lets it drop to the floor. The mouth there is in a crooked grin, skin pale, the lines of his jaw clean and smooth like he saw back in the pub. But now he can fill out the rest of the features. A slightly crooked nose, like it's been broken at least once. Blue-green eyes intently focused on him, under thicker eyebrows as black as the head of hair above them. His hair's flattened down, but one gloved hand rakes through it to lift it and the bangs fall into his eyes, joined by one white shock at his right temple.

He's… really handsome. Fuck. That's not how this was supposed to go. Red was not supposed to be a _handsome_ mystery.

"Jason," he says, with an inclination of his head and a brief lowering of his eyes, "of the Empire's black-ops division. I've been undercover here for just under seven months; had to catch that slimeball in the act. I think attempted piracy of a military airship should do it, don't you?"

Belatedly, Tim remembers to holster his gun instead of leaving it pointing awkwardly at their feet. "Yeah," he agrees. "Yeah, I think that should do it."

"Your crew's fine," is the next thing the man… _Christ_ , this is a Black Coat. Tim's never met a Black Coat before; everything about them is classified up to and including pictures and training and fingerprints. "I set them to gathering up the pirates we took down, and sweeping all the corners of the ship to make sure that no one else is hiding. Shouldn't be more than one or two."

And then Jason's reaching into a pocket and flipping him something relatively small. He catches it on automatic, and looks down to find a piece of leather imprinted with a metal symbol he was shown when he became a Winged but has never actually seen any physical copy of. The Empress' seal. There are only about two factions of training in the entirety of their hierarchy that carry a badge like that. Royal guard, and Black Coats.

"For proof," Jason says with that same grin, as Tim runs his thumb over the metal. "Thanks for the help finishing my mission, Captain."

"Tim," he answers, tearing his gaze up and away from the badge as he reaches to hand it back. "My name's Tim Drake. You were just waiting for him to take a ship personally?"

Jason's grin widens as he takes it back, and there's a sharp edge. Devious. "What? No. The way I remember it, you volunteered to use your ship as bait, didn't you? I mean, you couldn't tell your crew of course, or your superiors, but we were absolutely in communication beforehand. Isn't that right?"

He gapes.

He only partially manages to recover as Jason steps forward. If… If a Black Coat were to testify that this was all _planned_ , that's all his problems gone just like that. Their words aren't questioned, not by people at the levels of Tim's superiors. He won't get investigated for losing his ship in the ambush, or for his crew being captured, or for messing up in the fight and allowing himself to be downed. It was all… planned. A risk to his crew, but if a Black Coat 'asked' to use his ship as bait, well… He's almost not responsible at all; there's no saying _no_ to them without good reason.

"How does that sound?" Jason asks, voice lower now, grin reduced to a still sharp-edged smile.

Tim swallows and then, very slowly, manages to make himself say, "Of course. All planned. You contacted me privately at our last port; it had to be kept secret, naturally. Any chance of an information leak was too much to risk."

"Exactly." Jason reaches forward, taking one of his hands and lifting it. He bends, lips pressing to the back of Tim's glove as his head bows over it. "A pleasure working with you, Captain Drake. Your company was excellent, and it's always an honor to see a Winged in action."

"Thanks," is what slips out of his mouth, past the stunned haze his brain is trying to struggle past. "You're not so bad yourself."

The smile becomes a grin; Jason's still bent down over his hand. "I'd like to kiss you, if you don't mind?"

Surely… No way he heard that right, right? Jason didn't just—

"You what?"

His hand is pulled forward and he automatically follows it, taking a step forward that puts him suddenly very close to Jason; now straightening up and looking down at him. He swallows, staring up and he's definitely _not_ imagining that Jason's getting closer, or how he says, lower now, "I'm going to kiss you. If you mind, feel free to hit me."

He's pretty sure he doesn't, but the words still don't really compute until Jason's lips are on his and his head is tilting back to meet the angle. He inhales sharply, trying to fully grasp that the man he's only known as 'Red' most of the day, a _Black Coat_ , is kissing him. Kissing him… really nicely. Oh.

He feels a hand touch the small of his back, and then the other his waist. Then he's being turned in a smooth twist of motion, his back arched over that hand as he's dipped down into the kiss.

And then he's _sliding_. His eyes snap open in alarm as he grabs for Jason's shoulders, but the grip's already slipped and his fingers don't get anything but air. He gets a flash of Jason's eyes, wide and surprised, and then his back hits the deck on top of all the metal and canvas of his folded wings and all the air leaves his lungs with the hard _crash_ of impact.

"Oh _fuck_ ," is hissed above him, but his gaze is aimed somewhere up at the night sky, his chest _aching_ in protest of the violent expulsion of breath. "Shit, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

Tim blinks, trying to draw in any more air as a hand slides under his shoulder, lifting that portion of his torso off the deck. He manages a small gasp. _Fuck_ , his back hurts, and his chest hurts, and he hasn't come _flat down_ like that in a long time. What the _fuck?_

His gaze finds Jason kneeling at his side, looking guilty and concerned and not one single inch the suave charmer he _thought_ he was getting kissed by. "I am _so sorry_ ," Jason repeats, hand steady on his back and helping him to sit up. "I didn't know your wings were so heavy and the balance threw me off and I just— Fuck, are you okay?"

He has to wait until he manages another breath, deep enough that he can mutter, "Fine. I'm fine." It comes out breathless, but he does actually get it out so he counts that as a victory. This, he knows the drill for. It'll hurt for awhile, he'll definitely bruise, but he'll be just fine. Takes a harder hit than that to do any real damage.

Jason sits down, gaze darting away as he winces. "Well that… could have gone better."

God knows if it's some trained lie or real concern, but Tim can't _find_ a falsehood in any of the emotion shown, or the apologies. And _damnit_ but it was a good kiss before the klutz _dropped_ him.

He forces a deep breath in his lungs, turns as strong a glare as he can get together onto Jason, and says, "You're lucky that you're pretty, Black Coat." He has to take another breath; Jason is staring at him. "The next time you dip me, you better not _drop_ me too. Got it?"

It's bizarrely endearing when Jason's expression lights back up into a grin, and when he leans in, Tim doesn't pull away. Lips brush his for a couple brief moments, before Jason pulls back to say, "I'll hold onto you, promise."

He grunts acknowledgement. Maybe not the best of responses, but he thinks it's pretty deserved. Besides, he needs his breath for more important things than answering that.

Jason sits back, still grinning. He gets a moment to squint at that expression, before Jason drawls, "Hey, at least I make you breathless. Good sign, right?"

Tim smacks Jason's shoulder as the bastard snickers. That's deserved too.


End file.
